


what are you doing new year's eve?

by amaes



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anxiety, Getting Together, M/M, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 23:32:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17192288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaes/pseuds/amaes
Summary: On a New Year’s Eve night out, Phil’s anxieties get the best of him, until he meets a soft-eyed bartender.





	what are you doing new year's eve?

**Author's Note:**

> This is a bit self-indulgent in terms of how anxiety is represented in this story. I am in no one saying that the real Phil and/or Dan experience anything like this.

The five days following December 25th always felt like they existed on a different plane of realityㄧa limbo zone between the holiday season and the New Year. The short time period held the bitter truth that it would be yet another 365 days until the next Christmas Day; a whole year until more endless cocoa, and colorful fairy lights, and god-awful movies playing on the TV 24/7. 

However, these days also held the promise of an ever-so-close fresh start; a new year full of new opportunities, new adventures, new- 

Yeah, right. 

The festive season, whether Phil wanted to accept it or not, was coming to an end. Soon, he would be forced to go back to his everyday life, which was drastically lacking in multi-colored fairy lights. To be fair, it was lacking in the color department generally; both literally and otherwise. The thought of flying back to grey London from his parent’s home in Isle of Man made Phil’s heart drop a bit more every time he thought about it. 

It was just easy here, being around his family. Of course, they got on his last nerve sometimes in a way that only family can, but it was so simple. Phil wasn’t forced to think about the tough questions when he was home for Christmas - questions like “You still single?” and “How’s the job going?” and of course, Phil’s ultimate favorite, “Well, you’re out of your twenties now, what are you doing with your life?” - simply because his parents were kind enough to not bring them up to risk spoiling the holiday. 

“You know, you could help your father take down that tree, Philip.” His mother’s soft, teasing voice rang out from across the kitchen. He had been absentmindedly staring out the window above the sink, watching the soft snowfall as he lost himself in thought. 

“I don’t see the use in taking it down the day after Christmas. At least leave it up till the new year, yeah?” Phil’s tone was only half-joking, but his mum let out a laugh. 

“Son, you’d have prefered we kept that thing up all year long when you were a child.” Phil smiled lightly and took a sip of the coffee he’d been holding long enough for it to get cold. After a quiet moment, his mum added, “And speaking of New Year’s, have you got any plans?”

Phil resisted the urge to groan aloud. He was a grown man, for God’s sake, he wasn’t going to roll his eyes at his mother like a 14-year-old. But inwardly, he felt the overwhelming desire to tell his mum once more: “No, I haven’t got any plans, because I haven’t got anyone to make plans with.”

He settled with a more civil approach. “No,” he spoke softly, trying to think of an excuse that would make him sound the least pathetic, “I’ll probably just stay in, catch up on a bit of paperwork. It’s backed up from me taking an early holiday from work.” 

His mum squinted her eyes in slight disbelief, but thankfully didn’t push the subject any further. Phil hated the pressure surrounding New Year’s. Everyone’s meant to go out and get absolutely sloshed, kiss some nameless person when the clock hits midnight if you’re single, and then the next day wake up with all this ‘clean slate’ bullshit in mind - as if anything is going to genuinely change in someone’s life because of a number on a calendar. 

Phil had stopped going out to clubs and bars on New Year’s Eve a few years out of uni, which turned into he and a couple of his mates getting together at one of their houses. Overtime, though, his friends began getting married and having families, and, naturally, wanting to spend the holiday with them. 

So Phil had been alone for New Year’s consistently over the past few years. He didn’t want his mum to know, or his brother for that matter, because they all would make a big fuss about how he could have spent the time with them instead of being cooped up in his much-too-tiny and much-too-overpriced flat. The truth is, Phil could probably ask some of his old mates to get together, and they would gladly accept - but honestly, he didn’t want to give up on his whole ‘this holiday doesn’t really mean anything’ stance. 

“Right, well. Let’s go help your father with that tree, yeah?”

Phil was eternally grateful for his mum’s ability to know when to stop questioning him.

 

The flight back to London was short, but agonizingly cramped. The tiny plane was clearly not made for his oftentimes awkwardly-long body, and a very wide (and apparently, very grumpy) old man was sitting much too close to him. By the time the plane had landed, a rather severe headache had formed behind Phil’s eyes. 

After a seemingly excruciatingly long cab ride back to his flat, the headache had only grown more intense. The holiday traffic hadn’t seemed to die down at all, and London was filled to the brim of already-drunk young people, despite it being only four p.m. on New Year’s Eve. Phil’s flat was situated on a busy street with several pubs, and by the time he had gotten out of the cab, his anxiety levels were skyrocketing due to the sheer amount of people flooding the sidewalks. 

Phil ascended the stairs to his flat, politely nodding at his overly-cheerful neighbor, who apparently wanted to strike up a conversation right outside of the peaceful sanctity of his apartment. 

“What’s a lad like you doing in on New Year’s Eve?” She joked lightly, entirely oblivious to the growing pain (and annoyance) radiating from Phil. She was young - probably a few years Phil’s junior - and rather consistently had very noisy parties that could easily be heard through the shared wall of the two flats. 

He gave a polite laugh. “Sleeping, probably.” He fiddled with his keys in an attempt to thwart the conversation from going any further.

“Sleeping?” The young woman - who, despite meeting multiple times, Phil did not know the name of - let out an overzealous laugh. “Come on, it’s the turn of the year!”

The urge to walk into his flat and close the door behind him overcame Phil, but he was much too polite to actually go through with it. 

“Er, yeah, well, you know.” Phil began awkwardly. 

“Tell you what,” his neighbor spoke, “come out with me and my mates tonight. We’re going pub crawling. Probably will end up at The Pit, down the road.” 

If the uncomfortable feeling that had been slowly creeping up Phil’s spine could get anymore intense, he thought he would explode. The mere thought of going out in the streets of busy London with people he didn’t even know, to celebrate a holiday he couldn’t care less about, just to ultimately end up at some place called The Pit, made his stomach turn. He was about to politely decline, as he had done every time she invited him over for a ‘get-together’ with her mates, but he hesitated. Maybe it was the look on her face, or the social anxiety talking, but the words that came out of Phil’s mouth were most definitely not a ‘no, thanks.’ 

“Yeah, alright.” He regretted the words as soon as they were spoken. 

His neighbor nearly squealed in excitement. “Really? Great! We’ll probably head out about nine, alright? See you then!” She gave him a polite smile and turned away for the stairs.

Phil audibly let out a sigh when she was out of sight, before finally unlocking his flat and stepping in. Why would he agree to do something so incredibly out of his comfort zone? He was perfectly content with sitting in for the night and watching reruns of a show he’d seen a million times before ultimately falling asleep on the couch. But now he’d so, so stupidly committed to something. 

Phil walked to his sofa, setting down his bags and laying face-first into his cushions, his head racing with ways to make the best out of this god-awful decision. 

 

Phil starts getting ready at 6:30 p.m., knowing that if he waits any longer, the nerves of going out with these people will eat him alive. After trying on about sixteen different shirts, he settles back on the one he had originally started with; a simple blue sweater. 

I don’t even care what these people think of me, he thinks, it’s not like I’m going to meet anyone that I want to impress tonight. However, even Phil himself knows that it isn’t true; despite what he tells himself, he cares about what people think of him to a fault. He thinks about calling his mum and asking her opinion on his outfit, but decides that that is entirely pitiful coming from a 31-year-old man. Phil puts a probably unhealthy amount of gel in his hair, and sprays on too much cologne. 

He hadn’t properly gone out with a group of mates in at least three years. What was he supposed to talk about? The most interesting point of conversation in his life was how well or unwell his house plants are doing. The awkwardness of the night was already overwhelming to Phil, and he hadn’t even left his apartment. The only way he could ever be social at parties in the past was with the aid of alcohol. 

So, Phil makes a decision right then and there: he will get drunk tonight. 

 

The neighbor girl knocks on his front door at a quarter past 9. Phil had spent the last fifteen minutes convincing himself that she had just forgotten about him, which led to him trying to decide between being upset or relieved. 

“Oo, look at you.” Neighbor girl (who, at this point, Phil was in too deep to ask the name of) smiled widely at Phil. 

He let out a breathy laugh and an awkward “thanks”, before locking his door and heading downstairs with the girl.

“My mates are outside waiting for us. You’ll love them, I promise, they’re all just a bunch of idiots.” Phil tried to think of a response, but went for yet another polite laugh. He admittedly wasn’t the best with words.

Once they had reached the outside of the building and met his neighbor’s friends, Phil’s nerves were slowly but surely starting to subside. The group wasn’t too overwhelming, just one more girl and a few lads who seemed nice enough. He introduced himself and they were off, chatting about new films and music and other topics that were somewhat universal. He tried to stay close to his neighbor, who one of the guys in the group had referred to as “Celia”, due to the fact that she was the only one that Phil even partially knew. 

The night went surprisingly smoothly, although it was nothing too exciting. By the time the small group had reached their third bar, it was around 10:30, and the few beers that Phil had drunk (despite hating beer) were giving him the tiniest bit of a buzz. Celia, who was already fairly tipsy, clung lightly onto Phil’s arm, which made him feel the tiniest bit uneasy, due to his general lack of human contact over the past couple of years. But he let it go, because goddammit, he was going to enjoy tonight. 

A bit after 11, the group decided to retire to The Pit, where they decided to spend the rest of the evening. Phil was the last to step into the very warm, and very overcrowded pub, and even his happy buzz wasn’t enough to keep his anxieties down. 

“I think I might just head back,” he spoke over the blaring music to Celia, “it’s a bit crowded in here.” 

“No! She protested “No, come on Phil, wait till the countdown, okay?” He sighed but nodded with a tight smile on his lips. 

“Right, well, I’m gonna go get a drink.” Celia gave him a slight frown before being distracted by something one of her mates was saying. He walked away from the table of his acquaintances and through the large crowd of drunk, glittery people, until he reached the bar and took a seat on a stool. 

'I shouldn’t have come out', he thought, 'now I’m upsetting everyone by being the weirdo who separates from the group. I should’ve stayed in, I shouldn’t be here. This holiday is stupid anyway, I should just slip out before anyone notices-'

“What can I get you?” A loud, yet tender voice from behind the bar interrupts Phil’s anxiety-ridden thoughts. As Phil looks up, he’s met with the softest brown eyes he’d ever seen, with even softer-looking brown curls falling perfectly onto the bartender’s forehead. 

“Uh...what?” Phil’s mind draws a blank.

The boy behind the counter raises his eyebrows, but a small smile forms across his face.

“What would you like to drink?” 

Phil feels entirely brain dead. He cannot for the life of him come up with any words that would make sense in the situation - as entirely cliche as it is, he feels lost in the golden brown eyes that are staring down at him.

“Oh, uh, sorry…”

“Cat got your tongue there, mate?” The boy laughs, but it isn’t mocking whatsoever - it’s nothing but sweet: honey sweet. 

“Do you have a drink menu?” Phil’s mouth finally decides to produce words. The bartender holds up a finger as if to say ‘just a minute’ and walks away. Phil attempts to compose himself; how can he be so caught off-guard by one cute guy at a bar? 

The bartender comes back and slides him a small menu. Phil reads it over and nearly orders another beer, but remembers that he isn’t around Celia and her mates who he fears would judge him for getting some fruity cocktail.

“What do you recommend?” Phil asks, making any excuse for this conversation not to end. 

The boy laughs again. “Uh, well I’m not a big fan of beer, so-”

“Good.” Phil interrupts him.

“Er, what?” The bartender still has that stupid, gorgeous smile on his face. 

“I just mean,” Phil begins, “I don’t, uh - I don’t like beer either.” He laughs awkwardly. 

“Well, it’s a good thing there’s more on our menu, then.” Phil physically cannot drag his eyes away from the bartender for a few quick moments, before realizing how utterly insane he probably looks and glancing down at the menu. He names the first cocktail he sets his eyes on.

“A Gin Sunrise?” Phil’s request comes out much more as a question than a statement. 

“Good choice,” the curly-haired boy comments before walking away. Phil takes the opportunity to try to calm himself, but it’s nearly impossible with the growing size of the crowd in the pub and the cute bartender who he just can’t seem to take his eyes off of. 

He comes back only a few moments later, setting the orangey-pink drink in front of Phil, who feels much to nervous to even digest anything now. Phil fully expects the bartender to walk away immediately, and normally he would wish for that, but he feels a flood of relief when the boy speaks again.

“So, where’s your mates?”  
Phil can’t help but laugh a bit as he nervously mixes the drink with the straw. “Over there,” he gestures to the table halfway across the bar that holds the small group of pub-crawlers. “Though, calling them my mates is a stretch.” 

“Really?” The brown-eyed boy questions, placing his hands on the bar. 

“Yeah, they’re just, uh. My neighbor invited me out.” Phil feels the uncomfortable feeling creeping up his spine once again; he really doesn’t want to talk about himself right now. 

“Oh, which one is your neighbor?” 

“The girl with the red top. Her name’s Ceila, though honestly I didn’t even remember what she was called half the night.” Maybe he is still slightly buzzed, or maybe it’s the fact of who he is speaking to, but Phil finds himself more talkative than usual. 

The bartender laughs again. “Really? I figured she was your girlfriend. She’s looking at you with stars in her eyes, mate.” 

Phil can feel his face tense up. “Oh. Oh no, we’re barely even friends. She’s uh, not my type, really.” He’s preparing to derail the conversation at any moment, but the bartender just keeps his soft smile.

“Oh okay. What is your type then?” 

Phil feels all the heat in his body rush to his face. As a grown man, he feels absolutely ridiculous blushing over some cute guy asking him a simple question.But he genuinely doesn’t know how to respond, so he does the next best thing: dodges the question completely. 

“So, why you working on the holiday?” Phil asks. 

The boy seems a bit taken aback by the lack of response from Phil, but answers the question anyways. “To serve you your Gin Sunrise, I suppose.” He has a light teasing tone to his voice, but it is far from malicious. 

Phil feels stupid the moment the bartender answers. “Oh, right. I guess that’s true.” 

There’s a lull of uncomfortable silence between the two of them, before the bartender says: “What’s your name? Or should I just call you Sunrise?” Phil, who had been taking a sip, nearly sputters out his drink all over the counter. 

“Phil,” he says, probably too eagerly. “What about you?”

“Dan.” Finally, a name to the soft, sweet face in front of Phil. 

“Dan.” Phil repeats. 

The drink, despite only having been in front of him for five minutes, is already nearly halfway gone thanks to Phil’s habit of nervous sipping. He can feel the warmth slowly forming in his stomach and chest, his head beginning to feel a bit lighter. 

“I don’t want to keep you here,” Dan says, “you should get back to your mates.” 

“To be honest, I’d rather be over here with you.” Phil tells himself it’s the drink talking, but suddenly, he feels very gracious that he didn’t decide to leave the pub. 

“Oh,” now it’s Dan’s turn to blush, “I - uh, I’m not complaining.” 

Phil doesn’t know what’s come over him, but a wave of bravery hits. “What time do you get off?” He quickly realizes how sleazy that sounds, and before Dan can think that he’s going to ask him back to his apartment, Phil adds, “I mean, you know, so you can celebrate the New Year.” 

Dan smiles a bit again, but there’s a melancholic nature to it. “Actually, I was supposed to get off an hour ago. I just didn’t have anything better to do tonight, I suppose.” 

“Oh.” Phil doesn’t know what to say. 

“But that’s okay, I think staying was the right decision.” There’s a glimmer of something in Dan’s eyes - something that Phil can’t quite name, but it makes him feel warm in a way that the alcohol can’t. 

Phil glances down at his phone, and sees that it’s only about ten minutes until midnight. 

“I think you staying was the right decision, too,” Phil adds. 

After a silent moment of looking into one another’s eyes, Dan’s expression changes. “Would you mind if, I mean, do you want to go outside? It’s pretty stuffy in here.” 

Phil stands up and says “yes” far too quickly. He takes the last sips of his drink and shrugs his coat on over his shoulders.

“I’ll just go tell my boss, then,” Dan scurries off and goes into the back, leaving Phil feeling a bit dizzy in the best way possible. 

After Dan comes back out, he walks around the bar and stands eye to eye with Phil, before doing something that makes Phil’s heart jump out of his chest: grabs his hand. Phil’s first instinct is to pull away, to drop it before someone sees and starts giving them looks, but he’s a little too drunk and a little too happy to care. 

Dan leads Phil through the crowd of people who are gathered around the flatscreen in the corner, waiting to start the countdown to midnight and watch the ball drop. Phil does his best to avoid looking at the table with Celia and her friends, but they are probably too drunk to care anyway, he reasons. And besides, the electricity flowing through where he and Dan’s hands are connected is enough distraction from the whole world around him. 

They go out the front door, and Phil instantly breathes in the cold, fresh air of the winter. It’s chilly, and Dan drops his hand and puts it in his own pocket. “What time is it?” Dan asks.

Phil pulls out his phone again. “11:58.” 

“Almost the New Year.” Dan says, not dropping eye contact.

Phil pushes his nerves down the back of his throat, trying his hardest not to let then ruin this moment. “Yeah,” he comments, “I guess it is.” 

It feels like there is an entire lifetime worth of silence between the two of them as they look each other in the eye. No words are being exchanged back and forth, but Phil can’t help but feel as if so much is being said. 

Dan steps closer to him, and Phil allows it. Personal space isn’t exactly something that is high on his list of worries right now. From inside the bar, dozens of drunk people start screaming a countdown. 

10...9...8…

Dan grabs Phil’s hand once more, not dropping his gaze. Phil doesn’t mind. He thinks he could look into those eyes for the rest of the night, maybe longer. 

7...6...5… 

Dan takes yet another step closer to Phil, their noses almost touching. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this warm before,” Phil comments. Dan laughs that stupid, loud, sweet laugh again. 

4...3...2…

It’s Phil’s turn to take initiative now. He pushes his anxiety as far down as it can go, and lets the warmth of the moment take over. Just as a resounding “one!” is heard from inside the pub, Phil leans in and presses his lips softly against Dan’s. He can’t help but thinking that his lips match the beautiful softness that this boy exudes. 

Fireworks go off down the street, startling the two of them. They both jump apart from one another and begin laughing loudly and brightly. 

“Happy New Year, Phil.” 

“Happy New Year, Dan.”


End file.
